That was the horrified announcement I heard from the man standing next to me.
And, upon further inspection, I noticed, it was true. It was tragic, but it was true. Paulie was still laying on the ground, after his tortured tumble down the stairs from the overhead balcony. And yes, his legs were still hiked over his head, in what looked to be a very uncomfortable position (I think I saw it on page 6 of the Kama Sutra). Needless to say, his kilt no longer provided any coverage whatsoever. And the sight before my eyes was....what did Shelly call it?....oh yeah....PINK. (Did I mention that the steps - all 17 of them - were made of splintery wood? And that Paulie hit every step on his way down?) And yet another burning question is answered (you know, the one about Scotsmen and kilts?)....
And the answer is: "Nothing."
[Sam, the dog, just informed me that y'all don't know what the hell I'm talking about...and that perhaps I should give you some background info. So let me rewind....]
One of our fave Bajans, Shelly, was visiting the EFF state this week and we seized upon the opportunity to get together for a nice, quiet lunch. [Alright, alright...admittedly there's nothing quiet about us].
"Let's go over to that place on the water where they have those kickass rumrunners," I say.
"Yeah, good call," the Captain replies. And off we go, Shelly oohing and ahhing at the yachts along the way. But when we get there, the valet informs us that the restaurant is closed for a private party.
"Can we still get drinks at the bar though?" I ask. [Hey man - I've got my priorities.]
"Um....I think so. But go through the front door of the hotel," the valet offers tentatively. So Shelly and I hop out of the Jeep and storm the hotel. We're on a mission.
"We're closed for a private party," the front desk dude announces.
"Really?" I pout. And then, I perform Jedi mind tricks that would make Obi Wan drop to his knees and beg for mercy. "The valet dude said we could come in," I say in my best Betty Boop voice. Big blink. Tilt head. Big blink.
"Yesssss.....you....cannnnn......," he intones. [Front desk clerks are so easy. Hey, Jazzy and Reebster, remember how I worked that dude at the Best Western in Times Square? "But I have to pee and I can't find my key...."]
So...cut to, me and Shelly striding boldly into the private party as if it were being thrown for us. Shelly is rocking tight, low [and I do mean LOW]-rise jeans and a lacy, white halter top. Designer shades. Hair slicked back. Full-on attitude. Me? Sassy simplicity in a brown mini-dress and no panty lines. [Wink, wink]. The Captain parks the car and strolls in as if he owns the joint (he didn't even have to do Jedi mind tricks). Party on, Wayne.
We fly under the radar long enough to enjoy several free Bacardi cocktails, a few Heinekens, and a couple of Tequila shots. [Yeah...we got pretty loaded]. Next thing you know, it's time for the Belly Flop Contest by the pool. [Look - don't ask for too many details...just go with it, ok?] And that's when we meet Paulie.
How should I describe Paulie? Let's see....big, burly, boisterous, bombed and, unfortunately for us, kilted. Paulie is also very keen on winning the Belly Flop affair. After watching the other contestants for a while, Paulie announces that he's ready to take his turn. And then we all watch in abject horror as Paulie mounts the steps to the second floor balcony, pausing briefly to burp. He then turns around on wobbly legs and.....
"Holy shit! He's not gonna......" I hear someone whisper, aghast.
"Mother of god! Someone should stop him!" Another private party person squeals. We all watch, transfixed.
"No! He wouldn't...."
Yes - he did. Paulie dove head first down the steps in a maneuver that only Chris Berman of ESPN could describe: "Rumbling, stumbling, bumbling...." Head over heels. Ass over elbows. It was the longest fall down a flight of stairs in recorded history. And the most visually disturbing.
Paulie eventually manages to un-contort himself and stands up, swaying slightly. He takes two steps towards the edge of the pool and falls again.
"He's not even gonna make it to the pool," one guy says, and starts taking bets.
By now, those of us that haven't submitted to projectile vomiting after witnessing Paulie's pink...uhh...package....are trying not to spill our drinks as we laugh our asses off.
"Wait! Wait! He's getting up again!"
A cheer goes up from the crowd and Paulie inches a bit closer to the pool. Then, standing unsteadily at the edge, he takes a big breath and plunges in. It wasn't the best belly flop, but the applause was thunderous.
Now, loyal readers, you'd think we would all have the sense to avert our eyes when Paulie decided to exit the pool. You'd think so, wouldn't you? But nooooo....not us. We waited and watched and then wailed when he slithered out.
Shelly: "Oh my god! I've never seen anything so PINK in all my life!"
Sassy: [still trying not to spill drink] "Holy shit! Those look painful!"
The crowd gapes, Ben guffaws, I guzzle my Bacardi. Finally, Shelly shouts out: "Paulie! Dude! Your kilt has come undone!"
Upon receiving this information, Paulie smiles stupidly, gives Shelly a thumbs up as if to thank her for the tip, and then simply twists the kilt around. So now everyone standing behind him is treated the other side of Paulie's pinkness.
We laughed like loons. Then we beat a hasty retreat because, four hours (and many drinks) later, someone figured out we weren't with the party.....
After that, we entertained ourselves by pretending Shelly was a Latin pop star and that Ben and I were her entourage. We went to one restaurant and left abruptly when they told Shelly she couldn't have a mojito - Ben and me following her out the door and apologizing to the wait staff for the diva's behavior. At the next restaurant, I begged the waiter to help me save my job because my boss was a complete bitch on wheels. He made sure she got special attention and awesome mojitos and then at the end of the meal, he came over and asked Shelly if I would get to keep my job. Ahhhhh.....the fun we had.
Anyway...gotta go. Ben just got out of the shower....and he's....um....kilt-less.